


Damage Control

by jomipay



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Hurt/Comfort, Jon and Tim BROTP, Jon is a trauma surgeon, M/M, Martin is a nurse, Martin is a really good nurse, Tim 'hot surgeon' Stoker, content warning for blood, death of a child, it isn't graphic but some blood is described, mentions of procedures, no injury details, sometimes you just need to cry it out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26092786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jomipay/pseuds/jomipay
Summary: Losing patients doesn't always get to Jon, but sometimes one slips through. He's dealt with it before, he can deal with it again, but maybe this time he won't have to do it alone.Surgeon Jon/Nurse Martin AU.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 17
Kudos: 106





	Damage Control

**Author's Note:**

> An entry for Hurt/Comfort week. Mainly for the Self-Worth issues prompt. I hope you enjoy this AU!

It has been a busy day, but it’s almost finished now. Martin breathes in the soothing scent of the tea he’s holding. He carries a cup in each hand, one for himself and one for Jon. The cups are warm and steaming as he makes his way back to the nurse’s station. He takes the long way there, past the A&E and the trauma bays. He knows Jon went into surgery earlier in the day. They’d had to cancel their lunch plans because of it. But Martin got an apology text an hour or so ago, when Jon had finished, and Martin’s hoping to catch sight of him flitting around down here somewhere. They have plans tonight and his stomach flutters thinking about them. Jon had stayed over one night last week and they’d made out on Martin’s couch and slept curled together in Martin’s bed and Martin is very much hoping for a repeat situation where maybe he is brave enough to suggest they share a shower in the morning. Jon is a good kisser, nippy in precisely the way Martin likes best. He recalls the sensation of Jon’s hair between his fingers and they twitch with the memory. He wonders what Jon’s hair might feel like wet, what Jon might look like framed by the little porcelain squares of his shower. Heat rises to Martin’s face and he stops his current line of thinking before his blush has the opportunity to deepen and become any more obvious than it already is.

Martin has just started looking around the trauma ward when it happens. There is the heavy wooden crash of the trauma bay doors being thrown open and the clatter of voices moving down the hallway. He shoves himself to the side, flat against the wall and as out of the way as he can possibly get. He can’t see much in the whirlwind that is the trauma team assembling around the stretcher, but he catches glimpses of white sheets that are already stained with blood surrounding a body that is nauseatingly _small_. Gertrude is standing at the foot of the bed, voice carrying over the din, calm and commanding, as the others swarm over the small body. Gerry is on the right side of the bed, answering questions and prodding. Gertrude says something Martin can’t hear. Gerry places his hands on the child’s small abdomen, face paling as he lifts his head to peak at the monitors. He relays his findings to Gertrude, who gives a firm nod. Gerry grabs a length of plastic tubing and a scalpel; Martin presumes he is about to place a chest tube. A nurse leans over the stretcher just as Gerry goes to make the incision, blocking Martin’s view.

He wills himself onward, wills himself to leave the chaos behind and to get back upstairs to his own patients. His legs carry him away, past the procedure nurse and the registrar, both speaking into phones pressed tightly to their ears.

“Yes, theatre 3,” the one nearest to him confirms, dark curls bouncing as she nods her head. Rosie, Martin recalls her name is.

“Who’s the surgeon on right now?” Gertrude calls. Rosie murmurs into the phone and then calls back, “It’s Sims!” But Martin already knew that. His hearts thuds painfully in his chest.

The last thing Martin hears before he is completely out of earshot is one last yelled order from Gertrude. “See if you can get Stoker, too!”

Martin’s stomach lurches. The combination of Jon and Tim is not terribly unusual, but it means things are looking rather dire for the patient. Jon specializes in trauma patients these days, but his background is in vascular surgery. Tim is a cardiothoracic surgeon. Martin can put the pieces of the puzzle together and with the amount of blood that had already been soaking the sheets around the little boy, he does not like the picture that it makes. Damage control surgery is not pretty. Thoracotomies on children are not pretty. He sighs and trudges up the stairs with both cups of tea.

He sinks into his uncomfortable little chair at the nursing station and sips at his tea. It is still much too hot to drink and he scalds his tongue and the roof of his mouth. He flips through his stack of charts and looks out over the patient beds. If he is very lucky, Martin will have a new chart in his stack by the start of his next shift, and a drowsy little boy recovering from surgery in the bed that matches it. He continues surveying the beds as he finishes looking through the charts. An older man smiles at him and gives a little wave, which Martin returns. The man is recovering from having a hip replacement, and he had a bit of nasty time of it waking up from anesthesia earlier. He was nauseous and dizzy with his blood pressure dangerously low for a moment, but he is fine now. Martin grabs the second cup of tea and heads over with his chart.

“How are we feeling?” Martin asks and the older man smiles.

“Well, better than earlier certainly. No complaints here.”

Martin holds out both of his hands and makes the older man squeeze them. He checks his vitals and when everything is confirmed to be in order, he offers him the cup of tea.

“Careful, it’s still hot.” Martin warns him.

The man nods and takes the lid off the little Styrofoam cup, making a show of blowing on it, making little ripples in the surface. The display is very endearing.

“I’ve got to go check on some other patients, but I’ll be back, okay?”

The older man, Thomas, nods. Martin turns the telly on for him before checking in on everyone else. When his shift is over, he comes back to talk to Thomas. He hasn’t seen anyone in to visit him yet and there is a nagging feeling telling Martin that he would very much enjoy having someone to talk to.

“How was the tea?”

“Well I wish I had some biscuits to go with it.”

Martin smiles. “Are you feeling hungry?”

“Peckish.”

“Well, if you keep it up, they’ll bring you some food soon.” Martin promises.

Thomas scowls. “Don’t expect hospital food to be very appetizing.”

Martin chuckles. “It isn’t, I’m afraid.”

Thomas shakes his head sadly. His face lights up suddenly and he flaps a hand at Martin.

“What are you still doing here, I thought you had a date?”

Martin had told him about his evening plans earlier, as he was sat with him, rubbing his back and waiting for the sharp edge of nausea to subside and his blood pressure to even out. He is touched the old man remembered.

“Something came up.” Martin says simply. His thoughts wander to Jon, no doubt deep in concentration in operating theatre three by now. “But I don’t want to talk about me, let’s hear more about you!”

Thomas’s eyes light up and his face cracks open into a shining smile and Martin thinks this will be a fine way to spend his evening indeed.

***

Jon sighs and rips his bloody gloves off. His hands are damp and stiff, and his feet are sore now that he can be bothered to notice. His feet are _quite_ sore, in fact. He wants to fumble up to the call room and pass out on his bed there, but there is something that needs to be done first. A terrible and necessary task that Jon hates more than any other part of his job. Jon looks at Tim. His top is spattered dark red from the bright red spray of arterial blood settling onto the blue of his scrubs. He looks as tired as Jon feels, and there is an emotion there, something just barely being kept under the surface. Jon feels its twin climbing out of his throat and clawing insistently behind his eyes.

There is not a good way to tell someone that a person they cared for, someone they loved, has died. No one takes the news well, of course they don’t. Mostly people cry. Sometimes people are angry. Jon’s been yelled at more than once. He doesn’t hold it against them, sometimes people need a place to put the blame. Bad things happen to people who don’t deserve it. He sees it all the time. His profession is a constant reminder of just how unfair life can be. He can’t go home and cry over every patient that dies on his table—and he doesn’t—but sometimes, one will get to him. He tries desperately to find that numb place in his head that grants him the composure to talk to families, to tell people their loved one has died on his table. He reaches for it, but it isn’t there.

He throws his white coat on over his scrubs, hiding any stains from view and heads for the door. He just wants to cry. Tim already is. He hopes these people won’t be the kind to yell, he doesn’t think he could handle it. Five hours their son was on the table. For five hours little Callum Brodie teetered between life and death. Five hours his family had been sat out there, hoping. Jon’s about to take that hope and crush it like broken glass beneath his shoe.

He finds them in the waiting room. He keeps his expression neutral, but they can tell. They can always tell. He thinks it might have been better this time if they _had_ turned out to be yellers. They are going to remember his face forever. It’s going to be there, tangled up with everything else, with all of the other terrible things that happened to them on the worst day of their lives. A stone-faced surgeon watching them cry, a vessel of pain, watching them swing wildly from one stage of grief to another as they desperately search for a place to land. _Why?_ Jon should have an answer for that by now, but he doesn’t. He was never very good at this part.

He trudges back once it is done. He should check on Sasha. He thinks this might have been the roughest surgery she’s been on yet, but he thinks he can trust Gerry to have it covered for now. He finds Tim leaning heavily against a wall, still in his blood-stained scrubs, staring at the opposite wall. He startles slightly when Jon gently takes him by the elbow and begins to lead him away. He swipes them into the call room where Jon’s bed is waiting and big enough for both of them. He doesn’t mind sharing. Actually, he’s pretty sure he needs to share. They both shrug out of their soiled scrubs, tossing them in the hamper. Jon pulls on an old hoodie and some flannel bottoms and finds something extra for Tim before they both collapse heavily on the bed, too tired to do anything but huddle together under the thin blanket and fall into unconsciousness.

They wake up an hour later, shivering. Jon realizes they haven’t even bothered to flip the lights off, but Tim is up and taking care of it before he can even think to ask.

“There’s another blanket.” He says, and his voice is a hoarse and tender thing. “In the bottom drawer, there.”

He points and Tim pulls another thin blanket out of the drawer and throws it over them as he settles back in with Jon. Jon lies on his back and scrubs at his face. His exhaustion sated enough to be able to feel again, and now he is tired and fragile and not at all in control of his emotions, so he lets the dam break. It’s certainly not the first time he’s cried in front of Tim.

Tim puts an arm around him, gives him a brief squeeze.

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice is hoarse too. “I know.”

Jon gets himself in hand soon after. Tim doesn’t deal with crying well, not in this circumstance. Jon swipes at his eyes.

“God, why was that so awful.”

“Kids always get you.” Tim says. And it’s true. He gives Jon’s shoulders another squeeze. “It’s because you’re a big softie under all that.”

Jon swallows, makes sure he isn’t going to burst into tears again.

“And you?” Jon asks, already having an idea of the answer.

“He reminded me of Danny.” Tim sniffles. “Just a bit.”

“But enough.”

“Yeah, enough.”

They sit in silence. Jon has almost drifted off again when Tim asks, “What time do your rounds start.”

Jon taps his watch to life, blinking against the sudden onslaught of light. He groans. “Three hours from now.”

“I’ll wake you at half past—so you can shower.”

“Thanks.”

He rolls over and curls in on himself. This is the most they will talk about it, Jon knows. He and Tim deal with these things in exactly the wrong way for each other. Tim needs to deal with it gradually, bits at a time, until eventually it is gone. Jon needs to deal with it all at once, let everything out in one miserable exhale before he can suck in the next shuddering breath. They bring out a lot of good in each other—Lord knows how much worse his training years would have been without Tim—but they can also bring out a lot of bad. They squeeze it from the other like poison, desperately trying to get at what they need, not knowing how to ask for it, and trying to wrench it painfully into existence. They’ve learned how to navigate it over the years they’ve been doing this together, over the course of their friendship. This, what they’re doing right now, is its own form of damage control. It is making sure there is a safe place to rest, making sure the other isn’t going to collapse, making sure that they are okay, but they have never been good at giving each other more. Jon wishes for a comforting warmth against his back, hands larger than Tim’s carding through his hair and rubbing over his skin. Tim is still his best friend, and the dip in the bed next to him, their silent, shared suffering, used to be comforting enough, but now he wants more. He wants Martin.

God he is so tired. He’ll have been on for thirty hours by the time rounds are over and he can finally go home. It had not been an easy call shift either, he’d been impossibly busy from the start. He wants to hug Martin, wants to bury his face in his neck and cry. He thinks that might actually be a great comfort to him, being held and quietly shushed by Martin as he sobs, releases his emotions the way he wants to. The thought makes his chest ache and his eyes water, so he lets his exhaustion cut the emotion off and drifts into a fitful sleep. It seems he has only just closed his eyes when Tim shakes him awake. He has adapted to his lifestyle for the most part, but right now he is so tired he aches with it. He ends up skipping the shower, opting to lay in bed for fifteen more minutes before putting on a pair of fresh scrubs and heading off for rounds. Tim is already asleep again when he leaves.

Being back out in the hospital is disorienting. It is still dark outside, the first hints of the sun are only just beginning to creep over the horizon. It is quiet. Most patients are sleeping and visiting hours don’t start for another few hours yet. The only people moving around are the night shift workers. He passes a pair of internal medicine residents as they begin their rounds. His residents will just be finishing up their own rounds, on their way to the conference room on the intensive care floor to present everything to Jon. The thought of going home to his empty flat after is unappealing.

He takes his phone out of his pocket and types out a text, ‘ _Can I come to yours?’_ He sends it to Martin. He shakes his head as soon as he’s sent it. It is barely five in the morning. Martin is asleep and will have to be at work for the day shift in a few hours. Ridiculous. Bloody tired brain. He doesn’t have long to agonize though, as his phone buzzes in his hand and Martin’s ‘ _Of course.’_ flashes across the top of his screen. His heart twinges. Sweet, sweet Martin. The anticipation of seeing him gives Jon a bit of a second wind, gives his residents a bit of a buffer between them and his dour mood.

Sasha comes in with Gerry. They are both holding coffee cups and she does not look as bad as she might, so Jon feels it safe to assume that they have spoken. He pushes everyone through rounds quicker than usual. Typically, he might let them talk cases out more, propose and discuss treatment plans amongst each other before he intervenes to offer corrections or advice. Not today. Today he listens to the case presentation, listens to the treatment plan, fixes, or corrects it as it needs to be, and moves on to the next one, only stopping to answer questions. Gerry scratches notes down furiously as Jon talks, keeping track of everything for the group. Jon knows he will be able to explain anything to the younger residents if they have further questions. An hour later, and he is walking out of the hospital and hailing a cab. Fifteen minutes later and he is being let into Martin’s flat.

He wraps his arms around Martin as soon as he’s through the door. Fists curling into his soft sleep shirt as he pulls himself into Martin’s chest. Martin’s arms wrap around him and envelop him in warmth. He hadn’t even realized he was cold before. He was too tired for it to really register.

“Morning,” Martin says softly, and Jon can hear the smile in his voice.

Jon disentangles himself and clears his throat. “Morning.” Martin is still in his pajamas and his hair is bed rumpled and smashed flat against his head on one side from where he has slept on it. It is unfairly cute.

“Sorry for uhm, disrupting your morning routine like this. I can go, I just…” Jon trails off, he is uncertain of what he wants to say. He opts for the truth.

“I just wanted to see you.” And it is the truth, in its rawest form.

Martin smiles at him, and takes his hand, leading him into the kitchen. “It’s okay Jon, I’m always happy to see you.”

Martin pulls a chair out for him and gestures for him to sit before sliding a steaming mug of tea across the counter to him. Jon wraps his hands around it, shivering as the warmth spreads through his tired body. Martin turns away from him, fumbling around in cabinets and the refrigerator, pulling out some bread and eggs.

“Are you hungry?” Martin asks.

Jon’s first instinct is to say he isn’t, but his stomach emits a loud growl before he can say anything. Jon blushes and Martin laughs. His laugh is so nice to hear, so infectious, that Jon laughs too.

Martin lets Jon use his shower while he makes breakfast. The warm water soothes his aching body and it feels good to wash the grease and sweat out of his hair. The smell of the shampoo and soap is familiar. He towels his hair dry, takes in the familiar scent of Martin’s shampoo in his hair. He feels embarrassingly smug about that. He emerges from the bathroom to the smell of toast and eggs, with damp hair and drowning in sleeping clothes much too big for him.

“I have to get ready for work, but you’re welcome to stay here and sleep if you like.”

Jon thinks that sounds lovely. The short journey from the kitchen to the bed takes all of his remaining energy and he flops heavily into the open sheets. He hears the shower turning on again before he closes his eyes. He thinks he might remember the soft press of lips to his forehead a while later, but he can’t be certain he didn’t dream it. His sleep is sound and restful, and he clutches one of Martin’s pillows. Here he is relaxed. Here, where he can surround himself with the comforting scent of his favorite person, he is safe.

Jon sleeps the entire morning. He wakes up around noon and wanders to the kitchen. He doesn’t think Martin will mind if he steals some cereal or one of those atrocious frozen waffles he keeps in the freezer. Jon considers tidying up a bit, washing the dishes in the sink or wiping down the counters, but he pads back to Martin’s bed to nap first. He is just finishing washing the dishes a few hours later when Martin comes home, arms full of the Indian take out that is one of Jon’s favorites.

They talk after dinner. Martin clears everything away and they sit on the couch in silence until Martin prods him.

“Rough day, was it?”

“Yeah. It was. We had a kid come in. Seven years old. Car crash. In really, really bad shape. They had Tim and I take him to do an emergency resus, thoracotomy and everything.”

Jon’s voice falters.

“He, uhm, he didn’t make it.”

He can feel his eyes watering, he knows they are threatening to spill over. He doesn’t fight it. He just tries to keep his voice even so he can talk, so he can get it all out.

Martin slides closer, puts a hand on Jon’s thigh, a comforting, grounding weight.

“I mean, they don’t always make it out of thoracotomy, even the adults, but…”

“Yeah, actually, I saw him. I went to bring you some tea on my break, and it did not look good.”

Jon nods.

“Are you okay?” Martin’s eyes are full of concern. He reaches a hand out towards Jon, pushes a lock of hair out of his face, swipes a thumb gently through the moisture under one of his eyes. A very strong emotion pools in Jon’s chest. It is almost too big to name. Almost. Jon feels impossibly loved and isn’t that something strange. The feeling emboldens him, and the words start pouring out of him.

“No, I am not. But I will be.”

Jon takes a breath, lets it out.

“I just, I always go through this cycle when one gets to me, when one really gets to me. I just keep thinking maybe if there was someone better, or if I had done something faster, or if I had done this first instead of that, or any combination of possibilities,” Martin’s expression shifts to one of concern and Jon talks over it. “I just—I know, okay, I know. Any possible combination of things _could_ have happened. He could have gotten to the hospital faster; he could have not gotten smashed to pieces by some drunk idiot with a car!” Jon’s voice echoes through the quiet flat and he realizes how loud he’s gotten.

He lowers his voice. “I know. But saying it out loud helps. Giving a name to your fears and all that I guess.” Jon waves a hand.

“And what are you afraid of?” Martin asks.

“Not being enough.”

“Oh, Jon.”

“Saying it out loud helps. Saying it to _you_ helps.” He tries to wipe some of the wet off his face but there is so much that it doesn’t really do anything. “And crying. Crying until I’m fucking dehydrated helps.”

Martin scoots closer and opens his arms in invitation. “Well come here and cry then.” A fresh wave of tears starts to roll down Jon’s face and he buries them in Martin’s neck, clutching desperately at his shirt and trying to shove himself impossibly closer. Martin rubs a hand over his hair, and it is just as soothing as Jon had imagined it would be.

“Besides, I’m really good at hydrating people. I think we could nick you an IV bag, get a saline drip going for you.”

That makes Jon laugh and then he is well and truly sobbing, but it’s okay. Martin is hugging him and rubbing firm circles into his back with his broad, warm hands, and it’s okay.

“It’s just so sad.” Jon blubbers. Martin pulls him into his lap, cradling him and tucking Jon’s head under his chin.

“Yeah, it is sad. It’s really, really sad.”

It is quiet for a moment. The only sound the whirring of the appliances and Jon’s sniffling and uneven breathing.

“You and Tim always get those ones. Those impossible cases where the patient comes in and their injuries are so impossible looking you don’t think they could still be alive. I mean you said it yourself, how often do people even make it out of thoracotomies, or damage control even? I mean even if they survive that a lot of the time, they don’t survive what comes after.”

Jon hums, enjoying the sound of Martin’s voice and the rumble of his chest next to his ear.

“The only thing that ever gives them a chance, any hope at all for survival, is you, Jon. You’re like, the last line of defense in an unwinnable war, and the maddest thing is that sometimes you win!”

Jon smiles, just a little, a fragile, watery thing that he hides in Martin’s chest.

“You don’t ever get to see that though, do you? By the time they’re done with all their follow up surgeries and they’ve made it out of the woods and their family gets to see them, gets to really see them awake and talking? They’re so, so happy Jon, so thankful to be alive, to still have their loved one, and you don’t get to that, at the end, but I do, and I know it’s because of you.”

Jon wants to blurt out _I love you_ , but all that comes out is a strangled, grateful sob. Martin gives him a tight squeeze.

“It’s okay to be sad, Jon. You’ve definitely earned it.”

Jon will be okay. He has had to figure out how to cope over the years, and he has things that work, but he has never had anything that has felt like this. Martin hasn’t done anything to stymy the flow of tears down his face, but they aren’t just from the sadness, the exhaustion and frustration anymore. Now there are the tears borne of this love, this feeling of being cared for, this emotion so big he can’t hold in, so it spills down his face with the rest of his tears. He holds on tightly to Martin and thinks that he does not ever want to let go.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey thank you so much for reading! I might actually write some more stuff for this AU so if there is anything in particular that you'd like to see, let me know. 
> 
> Leave a comment here if you'd like or visit me on tumblr @[halfofmysoulistrees](https://halfofmysoulistrees.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also included is a kind of break down of the trauma setting if you're interested in knowing more about it, if not, feel free to skip this block of text!
> 
> So, if you happen to be interested in the madness and logistical firestorm that is a trauma team being activated, here is some information! I was seriously interested in becoming a trauma surgeon when I started medical school but have shifted away from this because trauma isn’t very conducive to research.
> 
> This process varies from country to country and within that from hospital to hospital but in general, the following happens. When someone is seriously injured and picked up by emergency medical services, they will most often call the hospital to let them know some key information including: an initial assessment of injuries, the age of the patient, their estimated time of arrival, if they suspect the patient will need blood products, how the patient was injured (did they fall from a height, were they in a car accident, were they stabbed?), vital signs (pulse and blood pressure, specifically what the lowest recorded pulse and blood pressures have been). The trauma team is made up of a combination of medical roles including doctors and nurses and registrars that all stand at specific designated places and are trained to communicate effectively and clearly amongst themselves. They are responsible for assessing and stabilizing the patient. Based on what they find, the patient might then go into surgery. The trauma team might look different depending on the hospital you’re at. In the US, the most specialized hospital is a Level 1 Trauma center (in the UK this is a major trauma centre (MTC)), meaning it has the equipment and personnel to deal with the most serious injuries, and can do so for more than one patient at a time if the situation calls for it.
> 
> Gertrude here is in the role of team leader, where she is responsible for coordinating the whole team and deciding the treatment plan, but not doing any procedures herself. Gerry is some kind of surgical resident, probably chief resident, and is responsible for performing procedures to help stabilize. Who is on the trauma team changes, for instance Jon might be team leader on days when he is not on call for surgery, and Sasha might switch places with Gerry. 
> 
> In this specific imagined scenario, the boy has already been taken for imaging, they know how serious his situation is and they have decided to perform resuscitative surgery (in this case an emergency resuscitative surgery involving a thoracotomy-opening the chest) in an attempt to save his life, which is where Jon, a surgeon specializing in trauma (the US has dedicated trauma surgeons, the UK kind of does, it is an emerging subspecialty), and Tim a cardiothoracic surgeon, come in.


End file.
